Nightmare
by ViennPeridot
Summary: Drift doesn't like nights, especially ones spent alone. "What do you see when you're in the dark and the demons come for you?" – Godsmack [Cross-posted from AO3]


Theophany.

Hot star burning in the sky, scorching the hard ground beneath his pedes.

Loose, sandy soil kicked up by battle raging all around, wetted and turned to mud by spilled energon and organic gore. Knights dying in isolation; slavers dying in droves.

 _Stupid swords. Get too close._

Cooling systems straining. Heat of battle raging all around, minor wounds already sealed by autorepair. Trading shortswords for blasters. Familiar, comfortable weapon, keeping a comfortable distance from foes.

Fighting alongside Wing now; white-plated jet beautiful and lethal in battle. Energon singing, spark singing, this is a _good_ fight.

Slavers approaching, Wing engaging Braid off to one side.

 _Tough opponent… he needs backup_.

Lockdown. A distraction he can't afford. Time wasted on banter, trying to find a way to end this _fast_. Analysing injuries that will slow him down, pistons hammering and coolant boiling. Charging the bountyhunter.

 _Take him down fast, help Wing. Mop up the rest of the scum._

Explosion.

Powerful blastwave. Tossed through the air. Hitting the ground hard, plating scorched and smoking. Wax burning off, leaving nanite layer overheated but intact. Pain. So much pain. Internal injuries, can't think about that now. Push aside, concentrate. _Concentrate_. Looking up.

 _Wing, where is…_

Wing.

Wing on his knees, holding Braid at bay with one shortsword; other hand reaching over his shoulder. _Going for his Greatsword_. Late. Too late, too slow. Blasters gone, can't reach him in time. Braid towering over Wing. Tall, so tall –no, his _spear_. Organic flesh flexing, spear moving in slow motion.

Wing, Wing MOVE, _WING!_

 ** _NO!_**

Everything around him fades away. Unimportant.

Crawling.

Straining against injuries, - _explosion did more damage than I thought-_ crawling towards Wing.

 _Please,_ please _be alive._

Somewhere a deity must have been listening. As Drift reaches the jet's side he can see some life still flickering in the golden optics, spilling from his cracked and damaged Sparkchamber in fading flares of radiant gold-white.

"Wing."

Wing turns his helm slowly to fix Drift with distant optics. His frame is undamaged except for the gaping, sparking wound in his chest.

"Drift?"

"I'm here, Wing. I'm here."

For some reason Drift is sobbing, forcing himself to sit upright despite his injuries so he can pull Wing's helm into his lap and stroke the familiar faceplates with dirt-stained fingertips.

"I'm sorry, Drift." The jet's voice is weak and staticky, cracking over his designation.

"Why the frag are you apologising?" Drift demanded. "You've got nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm dying, Drift." Wing sounded patient and infinitely sad.

Drift laughed. It was a wild, ugly sound.

"No you're not. You're _not_ dying on me, Wing. The medics are coming. They'll fix you up and you'll be throwing my aft all over the training room again in no time. You'll see."

Wing smiled, the light coming from his fractured Sparkchamber slowly dimming.

"Goodbye Drift."

A final flash and then it was gone, the light fading from Wing's optics as Drift watched, the glow from the jagged hole in his armour only that of cooling energon as his Spark guttered and went out.

"Wing?" Drift refused to believe it, even as he held his friend's greying frame in his arms he tried desperately to shake some life back into it. "Wing? Please, come back. Don't leave me alone again. Wing _, please_."

The wind picked up, swirling the gritty dust of Theophany's desert around them. Wing's frame was light as ash. It disintegrated easily in the stiff breeze, melting away in Drift's hands.

" _Wing_."

A whisper too soft to be heard over the sound of the wind as it rose to a gale, whipping around Drift in a punishing corkscrew spiral of energon-scented dust. He staggered to his feet and raised his hands to protect his faceplates, stumbling against the force of the storm winds as they ripped and tore at him.

One step. Ttwo. Forcing his way through the storm.

Drift didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to find Wing.

The hurricane roared around him, dust and grit scoured his armour down to the bare metal; worked its way into gaps and clogged his vents.

It dies off abruptly and Drift stumbles, falls. His left shoulder catches on something; tears it open in a shower of sparks that light the darkness for a moment.

Familiar shapes flare into life before his optics and vanish again as the pieces of fiery metal burn out.

It took two tries to get enough air in to blast the grit from his vents. His joints were a different matter, it itched and grated between moving parts, working deeper and causing more damage. Drift threw himself against the walls that caged him, desperate to escape. A hatch appeared under his fingers and he felt for the opening mechanism. It exploded under his hands, throwing him half-out of the crashed escape pod.

 _What?_

He hung there for long, painful cycles struggling to vent and trying to work out what was going on.

 _Have to… have to find…_

 ** _Wing!_**

The Knight was _there_ , silhouetted against the clear blue sky of Theophany, back turned towards to Drift and the damaged escape pod.

Desperate to reach the jet, Drift dragged himself from the escape pod with his good arm and tried to crawl across the shifting sands. He could feel fresh energon spurt from his wounds with every moment but he forced himself onwards, ignoring the growing weakness until it became too much and he collapsed face-first into the sand.

He'd covered barely a quarter of the distance separating him from the Knight.

Wing didn't turn around but he seemed to know Drift was there. His voice was like ice when he spoke.

"What are you doing here, _Deadlock?_ "

Hearing Wing spit his old designation like it tasted foul hurt Drift more than the wounds slowly draining the life from his frame. He tried to protest but his voice was a thready whisper barely audible over the breeze sighing over the desert sands.

"What's not my name anymore. I changed, Wing. _You_ changed me."

"Not enough, not where it counts." Wing turned then and his optics bored into Drift, full of accusation and regret. "You let me down, Drift. I counted on you to do the right thing and _still_ you betrayed us. You betrayed everything you ever thought you believed in. You are a disgrace; anathema to _everything_ that Sword stands for."

Drift could feel the Greatsword at his back, crushing him into the desert floor.

Braid appeared behind Wing, striding towards the Cybertronians with his massive war staff in hand.

"Deadlock. You _disgust_ me."

"Wing, I-"

Too late; Wing was turned away, turned to face Braid.

He didn't draw his swords.

Drift screamed, screamed as Braid grinned demon-like and brought his spear down to puncture the willingly offered chestplates, screamed as Wing crumpled to the sand and slowly began to turn grey, screamed himself into wakefulness alone in the shuttle, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. Memory was slow to return and he curled into himself, waiting for reality to make itself known.

 _The Lost Light. Overlord. Offering. Exile_. _Alone._

Drift knew he wouldn't sleep any more that cycle but it wasn't worth getting up. He shivered; the berth feeling empty and strangely cold as dream-Wing's final words echoed in his processors.

 _I'm sorry, Wing. Wherever you are… I'm trying to be better. I'm trying, I promise._


End file.
